


Bite Me ( )

by ThisPeep



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (which character(s) though??? you will have to read to find out), Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Death, M/M, Vampire Moriarty, Vampires, drugs cw, finally finished this, lmao theres so little vamp au sheriarty in this world i had to fix it, nonexplicit sex happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisPeep/pseuds/ThisPeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Feel free to run screaming.”</p><p>Sherlock took a deep breath. “I have a much stupider plan than that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bite me (Later)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings.

There was something about having humans as pets that Jim always found distasteful. He’d yet to put a name to it, specifically.

Or, specifically, a name to a widely applicable reason. Young vampires were barely better than humans at all. Give them a century or two extra and they thought they deserved to have what they were barely a sneeze ago as a plaything. Like tying your schoolchild self up with string and calling it well-earned. Absolutely pathetic.

And for the older ones-- well, maybe it was just giving into the desperation they had. Humans who wanted to stand under moonlight but weren’t quite willing to sacrifice their lives for it, who wanted to watch a shooting star or a comet shower, who were willing to give up their free will and personhood to walk around at night. As though they were that much more protected. Killing a person pet which often end in naught but some bad blood-- a grievance that would last some decades, perhaps, but nothing in the long run. It ended when the human’s life would have. No point in staying angry longer.

Of course, not all humans were pets. There were, after all, multiple ways to be an idiot. Some thought that being Marked could give them safe passage; some thought they were just strong enough to.

They were called “Hunters” but they were far more like “Difficult Prey” than anything. Maybe more than a baby vamp could handle, but a lot of things were too much for freshly-mades. 

Things got a bit different when it came to Ancients. 

They were rumored to be a different breed entirely, practically a different species. Murmurs of bites that brought euphoric pleasure, hand waves that would drop an army dead in a heartbeat, icy breath and magically persuasive eyes.

Lips that could control your mind if you let them say your real name.

Of course, some murmurs were scarcely more than words whispered in awe. And Ancients weren’t exactly forthcoming on what they could or couldn’t do. 

 

Sherlock could always tell when a vampire was one, though. He’d only met two before but they dripped power. Beyond intimidation. They made him feel weak. Like he was a fool to think he could fight anything even vaguely related to them.

The third one he met was unexpected, however. The two previous he’d had a meeting with, or he’d known they were going to come talk to him.

The third he met in a club.

A classy club, of course. Not one pounding with screaming notes and screeching records, but with what appeared to be a jazz cover of a mozart piece streaming through decorative speakers, volume just under that a pleasant conversation would be. Off whites were backsets to golds and pastel greens, detailed architecture dotted around pleasingly.

Sherlock was there tailing a high ranking member of a crew that’d started killing humans during the day. Which was rather not legal. Yet, at least.

He hadn’t expected to go bumbling into a club of millennium or older vampires. The atmosphere was heavy, air saturated with calm lethality. He hadn’t expected to accidentally call attention to himself instantly with his screaming lack of age, and he hadn’t expected to be looked at like a bothersome dish in a building full of vampires that’d given him nightmares as a child.

He probably, in hindsight, should have done some more following or research before walking into an unknown area. He’d accepted death as an inevitable outcome to the point that when he felt a cool body move just behind his and a hand hover over his throat and jawline, he accepted as one would the embrace of an old friend.

He had expected it to squeeze, or snap his neck. (A quick, polite death. Drinking blood from a live human in such a place would have been considered unmannerly.) However, what he got was a soft voice addressing him fondly. “There you are. You shouldn’t wander off when you haven’t remember to bring my chain, darling.”

And just like that, he lost the attention of everyone in the room, except the vampire behind him who’s gaze felt like fire boring into the side of Sherlock’s head.

He turned to address his savior, and his throat died on him. An Ancient. It was immediately apparent from the way the man held himself. He sent Sherlock a look, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Of course, I apologize. I hadn’t intended to stray so far.”

The Ancient made a purring sound, almost, and his hand fell from Sherlock’s neck to his hand. “No need for apologies if you learn from it. Come along, this crowd is far too parched for my tastes.”

Sherlock carefully kept the amused smile from taking over his lips. It was an insult that would be heard by most-- the Ancient had been letting his voice carry the whole conversation. Most older vampire’s voices boomed importance; this Ancient’s simply flitted unintrusively to every corner at it’s own leisure.

He started to move, and Sherlock followed unthinkingly.

 

They ended up in a booth, disturbed cushions making it clear Jim had been entertaining company before but they’d gotten the message to leave before Jim had led the human back.

“Thank you.” 

Jim glanced over, the edge of his lips tugging for a moment before he sat down a lifted a hand to invite the human to do the same. “Your name?”

The human smiled as he took the seat indicated. “Trying to gain power over my mind already?”

“Believe every rumor you hear, do you?”

“Only the ones that are better safe than sorry to.”

Understandable. Jim tilted his head in acknowledgement. “If I wanted you to do anything I wouldn’t need your name to make you.”

And the unnerving truth of that resonated uncomfortably in Sherlock’s bones. It’d be rude not to supply one, then, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if this Ancient was the type to find impudence amusing or a reason enough to kill. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Lovely to meet you.” But no handshake, no smile, just an even gaze. “So tell me, Sherlock Holmes, what has you picking out such a peculiar route of suicide?”

“A slip up in safety precautions.”

“At night? Very foolish.”

“I’ve been more foolish and survived.” And so far he’d survived this, as well. For odd reasons. “Why bother to save me?”

“An excuse to dismiss those I was talking to.”

“That all?”

“Were you hoping I’d confess to have the reason of your pretty eyes?”

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably. _Perhaps._ “You came from my back, you wouldn’t have been able to see them.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Are you surprised at a human being vain?”

“I’m not surprised at anything being vain.” Jim stood, only moving across the booth to sit next to Sherlock, looking him over slowly. “But I’d confess you seem to have a right to it.”

Sherlock felt some part of him reserved for fight-or-flight stirr. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?”

Jim grinned, a soft laugh leaving him before he shifted closer. “You’d think I’d save you only to kill you myself so soon after?”

“I don’t know you well enough to think otherwise.”

“Don’t you?”

Sherlock pulled back. “Pardon?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. Pulls people apart with glances. Does it not apply to all living things as well?”

It shouldn’t have been surprising that Sherlock was known in the world of vampires. He did often intersect with it, after all. But an Ancient knowing him by name had certainly taken him off guard. “Yes, it does.” Perhaps a hesitation before replying that conveyed his surprise, but not a tremendous one.

“I should kill you for meddling in so much of my buisness, young one.”

“You could have saved a lot of trouble by leaving me back there, in that case.”

“I’ve been watching you.”

And wasn’t that a statement to send chills along the whole of Sherlock’s skin. His spine had been put against ice. 

“You’re not like the other girls, Sherlock Holmes.” Jim moved closer again, not touching Sherlock but Sherlock could feel the weight of the small space between parts of them.

“One could say the same of you. How long have you lived?”

“That’s not polite to ask.”

“I’m not very polite.”

“I disagree. You’ve been a gentleman so far.”

“The things fear of death can do to a man.”

“Is that the reason you’re not being unkind to me?”

Mostly. “Yes.”

Jim stared for a few seconds, and then moved back to put space between them. “Pity. I suppose I’ll catch you around another time, since you can’t keep your fingers in your own pies.” He stood up, and was halfway out the door before,

“Moriarty.”

And then, of course, Jim paused and hid a smile before glancing back. “Almost as quick as rumored to be.”

“I’ll be watching you back.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Find me if you ever find yourself having a surplus of blood, darling.”

Sherlock paused. It was as good an opportunity as ever to gather more information. “I heard Ancient's bites feel like the most heavenly sin.” 

Jim simply smiled. “I suppose you’ll find that out, if you’re willing to.” He slipped out the room and when Sherlock stood up and rushed to the door, he’d already disappeared.

 

 

Sherlock had done his best to find all the information available on Ancients, since meeting the one at the club. It was obvious they were going to see more of each other, and Sherlock was pretty damn sure it’d go better for him the more prepared he was.

However, there was a finite amount of preparation to do. All he’d dug up was more rumors, some halfway believable but most far from it. A bite from an Ancient could cure any blood disease or illness. They could fly, they could lure people by singing, they could breathe out poison and freeze someone solid with a touch.

There was a line between being sensible and constantly walking around wearing a hazmat suit. Sherlock’d simply go back to the club to try and catch Moriarty again, but if he wasn’t there Sherlock was likely to have his journey end much sooner than he’d like. And even if Moriarty was, there was no guarantee Sherlock would be saved that time.

However, other options were running low. Moriarty’s people, while oftentimes easy enough to snuff out themselves, were stubbornly tight-lipped about him. Perhaps all the dangerous whispers surrounding the vampire made them too scared to risk it. Perhaps the vampire himself had made them too scared personally. In any case, it left Sherlock high and dry on any possible whereabouts. Even if Moriarty was still in London was up in the air.

Sometimes Kept would talk, but Sherlock had yet to find any evidence Moriarty had any Kept. Most older vampires did; but then, Ancients might not bother. Moriarty clearly was up in the time enough to know what Kept were, to keep his business booming, and to understand everything, however. Seems like he bothered with a lot of things Sherlock would typically think Ancients wouldn’t.

Sherlock was fairly certain that back at the club Moriarty had been wearing a designer suit.

Options were running out. Sherlock simply was at a mental block-- he couldn’t think around it on his own. He’d probably get a solid few hours of being able to think before his brother butted in, tore him away from clear thought and threw him into a rehabilitation facility. Sherlock could break out of one of those easily enough, though, and he could handle his brother fine. The important thing on his list was finding Moriarty.

Drug dens were far from classy ways to go about a search, but all Sherlock’s searching would be in his head. And hell, he could use a relapse right about then. Life had been annoying enough. It wasn’t as though he’d ever really been properly addicted, really. Could always stop. Never saw a good reason to. (Or at least a reason that seemed worth it.)

Sherlock flopped down onto the dirty mattress, indulging in an old vice for the sake of knowledge, and for the sake of his own urges. Oldie but a goodie. Chemicals released, brain focusing, and he closed his eyes to scout through London street by street, looking at all the buildings and going through all the passageways to try and find where Moriarty would be.

“I did say I would be watching.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. Looked over to his side, where the voice had come from, and well. Found Moriarty. Sherlock tilted his head, looking him over.

“You look different in street clothes.”

“You look different when not scared for your life.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. “I do feel substantially more relaxed now than when we first met.”

Moriarty quirked an eyebrow. “I would assume. Come along, I can’t have the person foiling all my lovely little plots to be caught high in a place like this.” He bent down, moving Sherlock’s arm to rest over his shoulders and standing up, taking on practically all of Sherlock’s body weight without so much as a tilt in his body to accommodate. 

“You realize you’ll have me for the comedown as well, _Moriarty_.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way. Close your eyes, you’re about to pass out anyway.”

Sherlock learned then that Moriarty had the remarkable tendency to be right about things.

 

 

“You’re awake.”

Sherlock doubled over and proceeded to throw up into a nearby bucket, coughing painfully a few times after. “Fucking freezing.”

“Withdrawal will do that to you, darling.”

“Your fault. Couldn’t find you without it.”

Moriarty shrugged, uncaring. It was a baseless accusation, anyway. And Moriarty had come to help once Sherlock had made the decision. (Sherlock wondered if that’d be a way to get him to come in the future, as well. Winding up in a drug den.) He picked up a blanket that’d been gracefully lain over the couch Sherlock had, apparently, been sleeping on and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“This your house?”

“One of them.”

Sherlock moved a hand up to grasp the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself. He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, and looked around. Basic design. More wood than Sherlock would have expected. Felt almost cozy. “One of the houses you use more often, though.”

Moriarty grinned. “Still so very observant.” He stood up then, however, and Sherlock frowned. “Sorry, but there are things I must attend to. I’ll be back later. There’s a glass of water on the sidetable--” Sherlock looked over to the side of the couch and indeed there was. “--and a kitchen through that doorway should you feel well enough to eat.”

“Are any of the other doors unlocked?”

Moriarty tilted his head. “Most of them.”

“The ones leading outside?”

“Only locked to the outside. You’re free to leave.”

“Oh.”

Moriarty didn’t ask why Sherlock assumed he’d been taken prisoner, just sent an unreadable glance Sherlock’s way before walking out of the room.

Sherlock pulled the blanket tighter around himself again and reached out to pick up the cool glass of water.

 

Sherlock was asleep when Jim returned, blessedly, probably near the end of his physical withdrawal and sleeping off the last of the effects. Curled up on the couch again. The blanket was practically skintight; probably still cold. Jim went to the guestroom and picked up the duvet before returning to Sherlock and laying that over him, and after a few moments Sherlock’s muscles untensed a large amount.

Jim glanced over to the glass. Empty. Judging from the condensation on the outside, though, it’d been refilled a few times. Good. Jim moved closer, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair and his gaze traced it before falling on his neck and pausing. Then it flicked up to the door. Jim moved his hand away and walked out, softly shutting the door behind him and going to his own room.

 

Of course, he was awaken by a minor racket of some sort of metal clashing while an alarm sounded. Jim sat up in his bed, stifling a yawn and slipping on a bedshirt before he padded out of the room, and when he opened the door to the kitchen he found Sherlock making breakfast. 

“If this is a thank you, I’m going to have to remind you that my diet is mostly liquid.”

Sherlock jumped, turning sharply to look at Jim. “You could at least try to make some noise while you walked.”

“I was. You were just making more than me while fumbling around with food.” Jim pointed out, an amused smile on his face, and he moved further into the kitchen before leaning against the counter.

“This isn’t for you. At least not directly. I’m making myself something to eat, which should make my blood… healthier, or something, I don’t know.”

“You plan to give your thanks in blood?”

“Is there another gift you’d like?”

Jim hadn’t been expecting much in the way of thanks. Perhaps some embarrassed mumble of one, but Sherlock didn’t seem embarrassed by the ordeal at all. Perhaps he’d been through things like it too often before. “No.”

“Right, so blood it is.” Sherlocked turned back to his pan, something brown frying that Jim would have given a name to if he cared.

As it was, Jim was looking at Sherlock with newfound interest. “You’re going to let me bite you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Seems a rude gift to not be fresh. What will it feel like?”

“Painful.”

“Ah.” He sounded disappointed.

“Then like ecstasy on steroids.”

Didn’t look disappointed then, although he did manage to not pause very long before continuing to cook. “So that one’s true, then.”

“Back in the old days, we had to keep secret. Prey that struggled and screamed brought attention, and then we’d have an angry mob trying to burn us down.”

“So vampires grew to have bites that would cease a human struggling.”

Jim hummed in confirmation.

“Evolution is an interesting thing, when it comes to things that live on indefinitely.”

“Yes, well, it became not needed after a while. So new vampires don’t really have that venom.”

“How new before it’s lost?”

“It starts to dwindle once you hit vampires that are only a few thousand years old.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. _Only._ “How old are you?

“Still as impolite as ever.”

Sherlock took his breakfast off the fire, turning to face Jim again. “Moriarty. You’re mentioned in texts dating back… since writing started, practically. You’re a ghost story.”

“I’ve been around since before civilization got here.”

“That’s 6,000 years ago.”

Jim inclined his head.

And Sherlock took a step forward. “All the things you’ve seen.”

“So much of which has been forgotten.”

Of course. Not even a vampire’s mind could keep that much information and still stay so up-to-date on modern day happenings. “Why chose knowledge of the modern era over your past?”

“It’s more handy. More interesting. Knowledge of the modern includes learning things, which is always more fun than simply remembering them. Besides, I have to keep some room in my mind just in case I ever stumble upon someone as interesting as you.”

Something in Sherlock’s chest hit his ribcage heavily before skipping a beat. “You said you’d been watching me.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Since your first case, Sherlock.”

Christ. Fuck. That was nothing for Moriarty’s timeline, but for Sherlock’s-- that was. A really long time. “That should be really creepy.”

“Feel free to run screaming.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I have a much stupider plan than that.”

Jim slowly raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

Sherlock leant forward and caught Jim in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> id ont. even fcking. ca r e
> 
> whatever vampires??? n theyre gay n theyre old as dicks im sick and im in desperate need of sleep i hope u enjoyed
> 
> hmu at [tumblr](http://symptomofsin.tumblr.com) im symptomofsin


	2. Bite Me (Now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ecstasy on steroids, babe.

Sherlock had expected something dramatic. A human kissing ancients wasn’t heard of. Ancients didn’t have Kept, really, not that he knew of, so they tended to not have a reason to. Some sort of force of nature must have opposed; maybe the kiss would burn. Maybe Jim would dig his nails into the back of Sherlock’s skull to hold him close while the universe tried desperately to pull them apart, correct the wrong, but something dramatic had to happen.

It didn’t, of course. Drama was far too predictable to appear in such ways. Jim paused, and then his eyes shut and he tilted his head to accommodate and the pressure on lips stopped being one sided but was hardly anything harder than noticeable.

Then Jim pulled back and opened his eyes although there was one more unexpected thing because he smiled. Just a hint of one, just softly, although his eyes slowly cast downwards as well to look at his shoes-- or, well, to look down but they rested upon his shoes for a moment in what could have been embarrassment from the kiss or smile or what could have been hiding some sort of dark pleasure at Sherlock giving in or many other things Sherlock would never be sure of even if Jim told him-- and then Jim raised his gaze and right hand, both resting on the side of Sherlock’s neck. 

His thumb ran downwards along Sherlock’s jaw line, pushing just hard enough to ease Sherlock’s head back, and it came to a rest just under Sherlock’s chin. His other fingers ghosted down to spread over Sherlock’s heart, pointer on Sherlock’s collarbone, Sherlock’s external jugular vein framed perfectly.

“Still sure?”

Jim hadn’t moved closer but Sherlock could have sworn he felt the air leaving Jim’s mouth on his skin anyway, would have promised with his hand on a bible that the words were pressed close up against his nerves, and he feared his voice would fail him so he only nodded.

“Say it.”

Sherlock swallowed. It’d cheapen it, to say it out loud. But apparently Jim had to make sure. Sherlock couldn’t exactly fault him for that. “I want to thank you with blood.”

Jim leant in and Sherlock felt his canines grow as they dragged along his skin, sharpening to a point where they broke the top layers of Sherlock’s skin with a dropped feather of pressure. Stung. 

The teeth sunk in with no more than slight pricks but they got thicker as they went further in and the tiny wounds were ripped open further but Sherlock grit his teeth because it was bearable and blessedly temporary and all he had to do was wait until the venom that coated Jim’s fangs mixed into his bloodstream and then--

ecstasy on steroids.

Sherlock tilted his head back more, taking a deep breath. The pain from the holes in his neck faded into the background-- the sensation of Jim’s skin on his was far more important. Cool fingers that were too still resting, he could feel them get moved by his heartbeat, the delay between his heart contracting and Jim’s fingers falling so they dropped microscopically against his skin, hints of touch stronger than existing against and Sherlock wondered if he could force his heart to beat faster and more, but that wasn’t one of the things people could control with their heads.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around Jim, pushing it through syrupy air to get there, and he shifted himself closer because the amount of effort that’d have to go into pulling Jim closer seemed exponential. Even if he was prey his ability to fight back and been shot. The fact that he was managing to do more than standing there seemed impressive, to him. 

He only registered Jim’s teeth were out when his lips were pressed against by Jim’s, and Sherlock thought very strongly about moving his hand from Jim’s waist to his hair but it’d required fighting against gravity, the venom, and the heightened air resistance. Far too much effort. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed, and he briefly tried to work his throat to make a sound of approval but it was stuffed with warmth and raw cotton. He failed to cough, as well. 

The world shifted and for a moment he was hovering, floating perhaps, but more of Jim came into contact with him and arms slowly came into focus as cradling him and air started to curl and pass by his body, not quite as cool as Jim’s fingers but around the same as his chest.

However, things were slowly losing focus again and before Jim had stopped walking Sherlock had stopped being conscious.

 

 

He regained consciousness in a bed, lavish, nerves still sensitive going by how the silk blankets made Sherlock wake up with a moan halfway out of his mouth and he immediately moved; to prove he could and to feel the blankets slip against his skin. He buried his face in a pillow and let the moan complete its journey, taking more time (seconds, minutes, perhaps an hour) to bask in warm and exquisite perfection of sensations before his mind had cleaned out enough that he noticed he was in a room without Jim. Which felt a bit rude.

Reluctantly Sherlock pulled himself away from the fabrics, sitting up and taking a short moment to note he was shirtless but kept all other clothing. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gently called out, “Jim?” before standing, although mere moments after he did Jim opened the door and slipped in.

“Hello there. How’s your head?”

Sherlock tilted it. Held up a hand and looked at it, thinking. “Not back to it’s usual quite yet.”

“At least in more familiar territory?”

Not that he’d exactly taken ecstasy as a drug of choice, but Sherlock wasn’t clear of ever having partook, and it felt around the same as a small dose. He could think, he could move, mostly he just wanted to curl up and feel nice. He nodded his head and sat back down.

Jim moved to be in front of him and to Sherlock he’d glided there. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest and pushed enough that Sherlock took the hint and laid down, expecting Jim to follow but instead Jim walked around to the other side of the bed and slipped in, pulled Sherlock in love before moving the blankets over them.

“This would be a perfect time to take advantage of me.”

“I’m aware.” Jim brought up a hand and started slowly carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, ignoring Sherlock’s small shifts so he could feel Jim’s skin and the blanket and the pillows move against his nerves pleasantly. 

“You could at the very least kiss me.”

Jim turned Sherlock over and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

A noise left the back of Sherlock’s throat that was suspiciously sexually pleased in nature. He was awarded with another smile from Jim and was shifted closer again, an arm over his waist, but that was it.

Sherlock would have complained if he’d minded.

Jim gave him another chaste kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I'm way more coherent after writing this chapter than i was after writing the last one
> 
> continued by popular demand. might be continued even more later. i don't know i think after 2 chapters you have to develop a plot and i don't really have any in mind here


	3. Bite Me (Openly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Spoilers) Pillow talk, sex, and a necklace.

The next time Sherlock woke up, he hadn’t been abandoned while sleeping, and the only obvious left effects of Jim’s venom was a slight headache and goosebumps, but Sherlock was relatively sure that was more from it no longer being in his bloodstream than anything. 

Jim’s arms were still around him, and the blanket and Jim’s chest were helping Sherlock retain heat. Probably why he wasn’t shivering. Sherlock turned over to his other side, facing Jim, surprised to find him asleep. (It hadn’t occurred to him Ancients would sleep. It seemed far too pedestrian for them.) He looked over Jim for a long time, eyes simply encoding the details of Jim’s face and neck into information to be stored in his mind palace for potential recreation later.

Sherlock brought up a hand to brush some stray hair off Jim’s forehead and Jim’s eyes slowly opened, one at a time, before he blinked and took a moment to mentally wake up. 

Jim looked at Sherlock, then closed his eyes again and rested his head on Sherlock’s chest, pressed closer. 

“I’d like to thank you for remaining gentlemanly last night.” Not the best word choice, not exactly what Sherlock wanted to say but it got it’s meaning across. Maybe it was a bit old fashioned phrasing, but maybe that was because Jim was rubbing off on him.

After shifting slightly to accommodate speaking so Jim’s voice wouldn’t be muffled by Sherlock’s body, Jim replied, “You have no reason to thank me for that. You wouldn’t have regretted it had I.” One of Jim’s hands slipped under Sherlock’s shirt, resting on his stomach. 

“I appreciate the concern, though. I can thank you for caring.”

“It wasn’t about caring for you.”

Right. Sherlock didn’t shift away, nor reply. It felt some sort of addition luming that would come unprompted.

“Not that particular decision, at least.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“Too much use of you in one night for my comfort. Now say something, it’s weird when you don’t talk.”

Sherlock smiled. “Why is it you think it would have been you using me?”

“Because last night you wouldn’t have been up to providing the other way around.”

“Oh, I disagree. I was definitely up to it.”

Sherlock felt Jim’s lashes move against his chest when Jim rolled his eyes. Jim ran a hand through his hair and gave a sigh instead of replying, the former movement putting two old faded wounds on display for Sherlock.

How Jim had been turned. Sherlock raised a hand, laying his pointer and middle finger over the two marks. Healed but scarred. Obviously a messy happening. 

Jim didn’t react beyond a soft noise that was probably more approval of Sherlock touching his neck than any reaction to the attention to his wounds.

“Is the one that turned you dead?”

“Of course.” Dead before Jim had even died. Although the revenge seemed silly now; there wouldn’t have even been dust left of Jim if that beast hadn’t attacked. “It has been for a long time.”

“It.”

“Vampires are just what infected humans are called. They can pass along the infection just fine but lucky few, long time ago, were turned from the source. What would be called monsters, just as dinosaurs were when their bones were first discovered.”

Sherlock rolled, Jim underneath him. “Your last act alive was to kill a monster.”

Jim tilted his head. “Yes.”

Sherlock ducked his head down and pressed his lips to the wounds. “I’m cold.”

“I’m not sure how much help I can be with that.”

“Lots.”

“Don’t you think we should wait until marriage?”

“Alright. Marry me.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I’m not even sure that’s legal.”

Sherlock kissed him.

“I could legally make you mine, however. But I wouldn’t legally be yours in return.”

“We can talk about that later. Much later. Maybe a year in the future, or so.” Sherlock kissed him again, and that time Jim wrapped his arms around the back of Sherlock’s next and pressed himself up and closer to Sherlock.

 

Jim’s head hung, his hands splayed out on the bedsheet as Sherlock’s were splayed on his back, Jim’s muscles rolling and moving enchantingly predatorily under Sherlock’s fingertips. He felt like he was getting ready to pounce, but his only directorial effort went into pressing back against Sherlock. Slowly, rocking, but Jim kept moving every part of himself that he could.

Sherlock leant forward, pressing his chest to Jim’s back, feeling his movement more easily and more widespread. He looked over to Jim’s hand and saw them tense, shaking slightly, like they were digging into something too heavy to pull. Sherlock moved his mouth so it was pressed up against the back of Jim’s neck, an apologetic kiss before Sherlock teeth dug in hard enough that it’d leave a deep bruise on someone normal’s skin.

Jim’s right hand shot up from it’s place on the bed, gripping Sherlock’s hair tightly. Given by how tense it’d stayed, Jim was putting in effort to not rip Sherlock’s hair from his head. 

“Fuck. I need…” Jim’s hand left propping him up moved forward, both Sherlock and Jim falling in response, and they were only caught by Jim’s elbow digging into the mattress. Jim’s forehead was resting against the pillows. “ _Sherlock_.” Half a whine.

“I know.” Sherlock sped up, teeth removed from Jim’s skin only to bury themselves in again elsewhere.

 

 

Part of what made songs interesting was the change in rhythms. The chorus could repeat and it’d be nice, something to hold onto to, but the changes really were everything. First, establishing the rhythm was nice. How everything worked together. But once it was established, it needed to be changed up every once in awhile to be kept good.

Jim presented Sherlock with a jewelry box, and Sherlock immediately recoiled.

“I’m not a pet, Jim.”

An eyeroll, the box was set down, and hands wrapped around Sherlock’s before pulling him closer. “Open it before getting offended.” Jim murmured, and Sherlock spared a glance to the box before sighing deeply and picking it up.

He opened it and inside there was a simple chain. Just constant little hooks in a circle. Just short enough to hang just above the cuts of most shirts, delicate enough that it would look in place being worn over formal shirts that buttoned up to the neck.

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled.

Jim picked the necklace out of the box, and when he pressed on one of the links it opened like a latch. Sherlock hadn’t even been able to tell it was different.

That was different, though. It wasn’t to be locked on or carefully soldered shut; it wasn’t made to not be taken off. Sherlock would be able to wear it or not as he pleased.

He frowned. “Then what’s the point of it?”

“Safety.” Jim slipped it around Sherlock’s neck, latching it closed and placing it down to rest naturally against Sherlock’s skin. “I won’t have to worry about someone killing you when you go out past dark.”

“They have no way of knowing how much protection I have from this alone.”

“That’s why I put it on now. We’re going out tonight.” 

Sherlock brought up a hand, toying with the chain. It was a unique colour, crossed somewhere between silver, beige, and a light red. After it was made known it symbolized belonging to Moriarty it’d by far be the most valuable thing Sherlock had been in the presence of. The news of it would be known along higher ups and it’d trickle down that someone powerful marked their Kept like that chain. In around a week Sherlock would be able to wander at night almost as unconcerned as an old vampire would. 

Sherlock looked up into Jim’s eyes.

“Alright. But you’re getting a tattoo.”

Jim grinned. “Sounds like a fair trade to me.”

 

Different club. It was a near identical atmosphere to the one Sherlock and Jim met in, but the atmosphere is carefully cultivated by the owner and practiced by everyone there and it’d be the same at every club they went to that an Ancient would be caught dead in.

The chain was light on Sherlock’s neck. Jim’s hand on his cheek was cool. The room was hot. Sherlock hadn’t managed to catch anyone looking at them, but they’ve had at least centuries to learn how to do it subtly.

Jim was murmuring nothings, either sweet or cutting Sherlock couldn’t be sure, and Sherlock was just staring at him in return. None of what Jim said seemed like it required or expected a reply, and Sherlock was far out of his depth but for once he had a buoy and he wasn’t doing anything but clinging to it and making sure he didn’t lose his grip.

The distance between Jim and him changed. Sometimes Jim was talking to someone else, body still angled towards Sherlock but face turned away, Sherlock’s breathing too fast being surrounded by creatures too high above him to see on the food chain and his protector not giving him close attention, and sometimes Jim was close enough they’re on the verge of kissing and Sherlock couldn’t see anything but his eyes and he could feel his own breath, too slow to be natural, warm Jim’s lips before floating back to warm the scant air between them. Sherlock would swallow thickly and Jim’s eyes would crinkle in amusement, pleasure.

Jim didn’t go out of his way to call attention to the chain. His fingers primarily played along Sherlock’s jawline, thumb sometimes breaking away to briefly run along Sherlock’s bottom lip, but at no point did he run his hand around the collar and Sherlock took it as a lead and didn’t either, although the felt a strong urge to toy with it, feel it, remember it was real.

Behind closed doors Jim was often the one who was more prone to following. Sherlock was new and exciting and Jim stretched to accommodate him, keep him safe and comfortable and taken care of. Sherlock asked for things and they appeared.

But out in the world’s spotlight Jim had to be the one in charge. Anyone even knowing Sherlock was typically the one taking Jim, even without being privy to how thoroughly their roles followed that in daily life as well, would pose a threat to Jim’s power. Of course, it’d be able to be easily enough rectified, according to Jim, but it would take work and time. Besides, neither of them were particularly interested in broadcasting their dynamic.

When Jim finally did kiss Sherlock, cementing the protection in place to the public, it was with Sherlock’s chin between his thumb and pointer and his other hand in Sherlock’s hair while Sherlock’s hands rested unresponsivily on his lap, his only movement kissing back and perhaps leaning into it, just a touch.

Jim pulled back a hair away and opened his eyes. “We’ve been here long enough.” Just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “Let’s go.”

“You still owe me a tattoo.”

“Tomorrow.” Jim stood up and Sherlock couldn’t protest, not with everyone’s attention, so he stood as well and took Jim’s hand, letting himself be lead.

 

The first thing that happened once they got back inside their home was Jim was lifted off his feet, hands on his thighs, and kissed. Jim weaved his hands through Sherlock’s hair and kissed back before kissing down his chin and over his throat, finding his way to the side of Sherlock’s neck.

The sporadic closeness throughout the night had made Sherlock’s blood rush, and in turn made Jim’s hunger spin.

Sherlock moved to press Jim against the wall before tilting his head, and when Jim bit down they both safely slid down to the floor against it instead of crashing. Jim’s hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair for a heartbeat before he pulled back, just hints of venom being let into Sherlock’s bloodstream.

Sherlock blinked a few times anyway. Very powerful venom. His mind was possibly a bit cloudy. He leaned in to press his lips to Jim’s again, both of his hands threading through Jim’s hair, and he would have kissed him breathless had Jim needed to breathe.

“What’s my tattoo going to be of?”

Sherlock moved to mouth at Jim’s neck, immediately accommodated by Jim’s head tilting back. “Draw something that reminds you of me.”

“I’d hate to wear my own art on my skin.”

“It’ll fade eventually.”

“I wouldn’t let it.”

Sherlock gave a hard suck and Jim shifted.

“You draw it.”

“Can’t draw.”

“Then tell me what to. Make it at least a bit yours, too.”

Sherlock could deal with that. One hand slid off Jim and delicately twisted Sherlock’s necklace between its fingers. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Jim agreed, ducking his head to catch Sherlock in another kiss. “For now, what would you like for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go. myb some setting up of plot, or smthn. idk. i think im starting to actually commit to this, honestly. rip me
> 
> [hit up my tumblr for eternal love or myb just a potential blog ud find cool to follow](http://symptomofsin.tumblr.com)


	4. Bite Me (Please)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Public claiming round 2 doesn't go as smooth.

After dinner (pasta with spinach slipped into the sauce for Sherlock, and Sherlock for Jim) came sex (Sherlock had consented before the bite, and was able to remain remarkably more lucid that time anyway) and then lounging. Jim had, at first, been content to lounge on his side using Sherlock as a pillow, but he’d been pushed on to his stomach and was getting all mentally psyched up for a round two when Sherlock’s searching around the drawers ended and instead of cool wetness further down, Jim felt something metal on his back.

It pulled down across his skin then swooped, and it took barely another movement before Jim realized that Sherlock was sketching out a tattoo idea.

“I thought you said you couldn’t draw.”

“Maybe I’m feeling more _artistic_ than usual. I’ve heard either sex or drugs alone will do that to a man.”

Jim moved to stretch, perhaps get more comfortable, but there was a warm hand laid on his shoulder and so Jim paused and settled back down into the same position. 

Sherlock continued carefully doodling.

“Is that where it’s going to be?”

“Yes. I’m going to thicken the lines I want to be made permanent after the sketch is done and then those ones will be gone over with a tattoo gun.”

Fair enough. Jim waited as he continued to feel the pull of a pen on his skin, not paying any attention to how any of the lines met up and therefore what Sherlock was, exactly, drawing on his back. He simply concentrated on staying still and listening to Sherlock’s breathing and heartbeat. If he’d been in an at all more comfortable position, he’d have fallen asleep then and there, with all the consistent soft sounds brushing along his ears. Like personalized white noise.

The pen started to move back and forth in short segments some time later, lines being enlarged and thickened, made stark against the rest. Less pleasant, but Jim continued to pay little heed.

The pen pulled away and Jim waited for some sort of sign Sherlock wouldn’t mind him moving.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It is possible. It’ll happen during the actual tattooing process, as well, you know.”

“Did you notice when you started?”

“No, I can’t say that I did.” Jim shifted and Sherlock didn’t protest so he sat up, stretching his arms, and he could indeed feel a few drops trickling down his back once he was vertical. “I don’t have any shirts with cutout backs. I’ll need to order some.”

Sherlock gave a questioning hum.

“You showed off my claim. Seems only fair.”

Sherlock’s hand moved to run along the small of Jim’s back, slipping through blood, sliding around to Jim’s front and tugging him against Sherlock’s chest.

Jim tilted his head back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes closing. “Yes?”

Sherlock’s hand ghosted up along Jim’s chest before stopping with a loose hold on Jim’s neck. Pointless to apply pressure, Jim didn’t need to breathe. “You bleed. Do you bruise?”

“If I want to.”

Sherlock turned Jim around and pushed him onto his back, cuts hitting blankets and being soothed by the fabric rather than irritated. 

Sherlock loomed over him threateningly, and Jim keened. 

“One more thing before the tattoo.”

 

 

“It’s already healed.”

“Mhm.” 

Sherlock traced the bolder lines of the tattoo while Jim attempted to stylishly decimate one of his current shirts.

“Fucking hell. Maybe I should just rip off the bottom half, call it modern, and go to a young club.”

“Everyone there would either be terrified of you openly or not know who you were or that the tattoo meant, Jim.” He dug his fingers into the skin just next to the ink.

Jim sighed. “I want to flaunt this now. Not wait while a new, formal-yet-exposing shirt gets made for me by some overpaid tailor.” Although not quite as overpaid as Jim originally thought. Clothes-making was harder than anticipated.

“And here I thought you knew how to do everything.” Sherlock murmured, and Jim spared a fleeting thought to if he’d said his last thought out loud.

“More than most doesn’t mean more than barely any.”

“You’ve had hundreds of lifetimes.”

“Not nearly as many lifetimes to keep up with all the new and exciting things people discover to be good at. I can barely feel your nails.”

Sherlock moved to the flats of his fingers. “I don’t think we need to have sex a third time tonight.”

“We don’t need to, no.”

“The sooner you put on a backless shirt the sooner I put on your chain.”

Jim sighed reluctantly but reached over and picked up a new shirt, staring at it carefully for a time before slowly picking up his scissors again.

 

Mingling was as entertaining as it usually was, for Jim, especially in high society places like the one he was in. Everything had at least one deeper meaning, and people considered what they said and it’s implications before saying it. Far more interesting than most talks.

But it was doubly as exciting with his shirt cascading to his hips in the back, fabric pulled away from his spine in increasing distance, an elegant triangle of skin showing that happened to be covered in some design stabbed into there permanently. And he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him from the couch he and Sherlock had laid claim to when they first entered, the one that Sherlock had stayed on when Jim stood up, the one he was now splayed over comfortably as he stared at Jim flit around the room charismatically and carelessly.

The shirt would probably raise some eyebrows on it’s own, by the Taken who hadn’t learned not to react by eccentricities in places like these, but the new appearance of ink was enough to falter even the vampires.

Perhaps they faltered in a single blink at first sight or an intake of breath a hair faster than normal, but it was enough for both Sherlock and Jim to notice, and it’d be enough for them to cackle about later. It was enough to imply that Jim had done more than seduced a human into his clutches. It was enough to be the equivalent of a scandal and make Sherlock’s neck burn with all the disgusted energy directed at him.

Sherlock moved his gaze to the space next to him and Jim looked over barely a moment afterwards, sweetly excusing himself from the conversation and flitting back over to Sherlock, taking the place next to him.

Sherlock pulled Jim into kiss and when Jim kissed back he felt something in him go cold and clutching.

 

“That was absolutely idiotic!”

Sherlock turned around, pausing before he closed the door to Jim’s house. “It was the point of you tearing a shirt and going out in it. They knew already.”

When he turned back around Jim was centimeters away, nails dripping blood from his palms. “I should have cut stripes into your cheek then and there. I still should.”

“You might as well tear out my throat and be done with it.”

Jim bared his fangs for a flash and Sherlock stared at him evenly. 

“Either kill me or get used to me.”

“Or leave you.”

Sherlock smirked and slipped his arms around Jim, pulling him closer and them flush together. “Yeah, see how that works out.”

When Jim’s muscles relaxed Sherlock tilted Jim’s head up for a kiss and was unsurprised when Jim didn’t push away, simply accepted it, if not slightly begrudgingly. 

Lips curved into a smile against Jim’s mouth and he tensed again before Sherlock lifted him up, legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist due to muscle memory and gut reactions and it wasn’t another second before Jim’s back hit a wall and his head tilted up in response to a mouth on his throat.

“There’s… there’s a difference between being protected and making yourself a target, Sherlock.” No one threatened a toy to try and persuade a person to bend to their will. But the moment the toy was shown to be more than just that, it had knives at its throat.

Sherlock pressed closer. “Let me be a target. I was the moment you let someone inject you with art I drew on your back.” 

“No you weren’t!” And for the first time, Jim shoved Sherlock away, landing on his feet while Sherlock slammed into the wall opposite. “That could have just been pacifying, Sherlock. It implying power, not solid enough for it to be worth the risk to act on. You think I would have agreed if I’d thought it’d place you in danger?”

And, well. Sherlock’s back hurt and so did breathing, getting the air knocked out of his lungs, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t in danger just then. He raised up his hands placatingly. “Jim. I’m sorry. You were there and for a second it felt like everyone knew you were mine and it was heady.”

Jim’s eyes skitted across Sherlock’s face, reading his expression, and he didn’t reply. Silence stretched until Sherlock realized he probably had to say something else, something right, and scrambled around in his head for what it was.

“I’ll be extra careful. It’ll just be a rumor, getting less believable as time goes on. I’ll stay out of the spotlight and you can parade in it as always. I’m Kept and you’re free. A human got too high on their own perceived power and thought they had ownership over what would be laughable that they could own. Nothing more.”

Jim’s shoulders relaxed a bit, eyes no longer quite as squinting.

Sherlock took a step forward. “Jim. I’ll be fine. I’ll be safe.”

Success came in the form of Jim slumping his shoulders and leaning against the wall, safe to approach, and Sherlock gathered Jim up in his arms again. “Human lives are so short already, Sherlock. I couldn’t have yours cut down even more.”

Sherlock placed a kiss on the top of Jim’s head, a hand stroking through his hair. “It won’t be. Come on, come to bed. Things’ll look better in the evening.”

Jim nodded his head, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck and getting a slow kiss in return. “Maybe I’m just hungry.” He murmured, a small smile playing over his lips, and Sherlock broke away to roll his eyes.

“Insatiable. Fine, it’s practically breakfast time for you anyway, might as well give it to you in bed to make up for stupid actions.”

He felt a grin against his neck, complete with the feeling of two sharp teeth growing to press to his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its a short chapter but honestly???? honestly i have writers block so im proud of myself


	5. Bite Me (In Conclusion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you approach the end of a human's timeline?

Sherlock had said _keep a low profile_ and it’d turned out to mean _only do something stupid every year or so_ , which was more often then Jim would have liked. But every time Sherlock pulled Jim into a kiss or curled a hand around his wrist or interrupted him, he got lines in his skin split open in front of everyone. (Which was rude, to be fair, like a human yelling at their child in public but it was still better than Sherlock having a target painted between his eyes.) The claim that Sherlock had once pulled Jim into a kiss and Jim had let him without punishment was considered unfounded, soon enough.

It wouldn’t have been if the marks Sherlock ripped into Jim’s skin lasted any length of time at all, other than the ones cut into him with platinum. But those were careful and put in unseen places, not like Sherlock and his nails and willpower. He’d torn out Jim’s throat before. Jim had later referred to it as incredibly hot and terribly amusing.

Some nights they didn’t touch at all, though. They’d curl up on opposite sides of the bed and not talk, and Sherlock woke up to find Jim missing, and he’d trundle out to make himself some coffee and only see Jim when he woke up the next day to find Jim wrapped around him.

However, most of the time they had the tendency to wrap around each other, when alone. Back and forth questions. Nothing to separate them but answers.

“What was the building of the pyramids like?”

“Wasn’t there for them, I was in what’d become America at the time. What does a scared heartbeat feel like in your own chest?”

“Like living. Why do you like pain?” 

“Feels like living.”

“Platinum sears your skin, and it hurts you for months after contact.”

“Why do you like hurting me?” 

“Who wouldn’t pet a monster, if they knew they’d be okay?”

The first time Sherlock had called Jim a monster, he’d been worried about the reaction. But there hadn’t been much of one at all-- Jim accepted it easily enough. He understood the view. And he was, if not through DNA then through mind. 

 

Jim had shared Sherlock, once, too. With his permission. No one else had been allowed to bite Sherlock but they did a whole host of others things to him while Jim watched, and Sherlock had slept for nearly 48 hours afterwards. Turned out many partners focusing on just you was exhausting, and Sherlock’d spent the half hour practically perpetually on the verge of using his safe word.

Jim had just watched. 

And when Sherlock woke up, he was in an iron grip that he decided against trying to get out of, and he only moved to place a kiss on Jim’s jawline. The grip tightened in response, not loosened, and Sherlock supposed that was understandable.

 

Things smoothed out, too. Not enough to be properly boring, but Sherlock learned when he could step out of line, if he so fancied, and when Jim would get actively upset if he did. Or-- how upset Jim would be, and whether it’d be worth it in the end, or just leave Sherlock feeling guilty and Jim feeling tired.

It was a little under a decade when Sherlock first brought up Jim turning him. Of course, Jim immediately took the opportunity to complain about fresh vampires, how stupid they acted and weak they were-- living for thousands of years and he’d apparently not overcome the urge to whine yet-- and Sherlock pointed out they weren’t as stupid and weak as humans were.

Jim debated the stupid point, and Sherlock conceded that they were probably about equal, but they both knew he wasn’t stupid, anyway.

“I don’t want to die of old age, lying down next to you when you’re still young and full of strength. I’m in my fifties now, Jim.”

“I know.” Jim sighed, fingers drumming against Sherlock’s thigh. “You’re getting white hairs.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’ve been dying since you were twenty-five, don’t be so melodramatic.” 

Sherlock turned his head to look over at Jim, who was resolutely looking at the ceiling, and nowhere else. “I want to spend eternity with you.”

“I want to spend it with you, too.”

“So why not turn me?”

Jim closed his eyes. “One more year.”

“You’re going to make me wait a full decade since we met before turning me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You know I already understand what it means.”

“Make it special. One year will be like nothing at all, soon enough.”

Sherlock slowly nodded, then turned his head back to look up at the ceiling. “One year. Then we’re together.”

“We already are. But one year, and then it’s forever.”

 

 

Sherlock, at this point, didn’t remember any of what happened between that conversation and his turning. Probably a lot of the same-- decadence and kissing and talking, endlessly talking, about something they’d discussed hundreds of times before in the same exact ways or some irrelevant one of them brought up just to hear the other string words together in a new way. 

Sherlock’d fallen into the pattern of keeping up to date on new things right along with Jim. He was right, after all-- learning was more fun than remembering.

There were only a few things from his human life he actually recalled, honestly. He remembered Jim saving him in the club, he remembered tattooing Jim’s skin, he remembered their first time together, and his turning. He remembered crying at his brother’s death, but he didn’t remember much about the man himself. Wisps of something like red and something sometimes padded through his brain, but it was too far gone to grasp, and Sherlock didn’t care much to, anyway. Most of it was irrelevant. 

They spent years apart, now. Jim’d wander off to Rome again while Sherlock dabbled around in America, and after a little while they’d meet up somewhere and spend the next few years living together, kissing and touching and breathing each other until they had their fill, then part again until they fancied repeating the whole thing. And when they were together, time swam like nothing, and they were both greedy for ever little snippet of each other, and there were wounds that would have never fully healed on a human and kissing sessions that lasted days and naps that melded together. They were certain they’d never part entirely. The notion was ridiculous. They’d have broken up long ago if they were ever to at all.

No, they’d simply go explore without each other and then return and swap stories and information. One of them happened to watch a country fall into chaos, and they’d recount to the other person what they’d seen for a few days in great detail, sipping blood and touching sporadically throughout. 

They drifted. Vampires died and were sired in hoards, few of them lives long enough to be noticed individually, and once one did they tended to get killed off by another Ancient. They didn’t like threats, after all. 

Sherlock was left alone, he was allowed to grow into old age. All he’d done was calm down Jim, and he hardly kicked up much of a fuss either, as long as they let him meddle in the human world as much as he fancied. And they had no reason not to let him at all. 

Jim was still a fable, and he dated back since before writing and civilization began. However, tales of him were twisted to include someone else, a taller figure with more piercing eyes who stood close. A ghost story and his companion, lovers eternal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet y'all thought you'd seen the last of me.
> 
> naw. finished this shit. the long awaited finale. i didn't make it angst, y'all are welcome, bc i almost made it rly rly depressing.


End file.
